


Articulate

by OtakuElf



Series: Biological Clock [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Parenthood, first word
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:59:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4961539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is missing, and Sherlock tells Siger, their son, that data will bring him home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-ing!

Siger was fretful. That was a word John often used, and Sherlock had to agree that the description was apt. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and the infant Siger’s father, was listening to the baby, and to the others. The murmur of voices in the sitting room rose and fell. Not familiar voices. Strangers had taken over the flat, waiting for the landline to ring. That phone number was now listed on both Sherlock’s site, The Science of Deduction, and John Watson’s blog as a point of contact. The phone sat inert, stubbornly silent.

Normally Alice Brown answered that particular number, which had been set up by John Watson after Sherlock’s return from the dead. The mum phone in the sitting room, solid enough for their business manager to transfer when necessary, was rarely actually used. Alice Brown was not answering that phone now. Or rather Alice Brown was using the other unlisted line in 221C to conduct business, while no one was answering this phone, for it mulishly refused to ring.

Sherlock Holmes was not monitoring the telephone. But he could not prevent himself from lifting the red-curled infant from this watchful place - standing at the gate atop the seventeen steps that led to 221B, and staring at the front door. Siger was no longer enchanted by the bustle in their flat, and was now watching for John, standing at the gate and making tiny questioning remarks to his biological father. Sherlock was fretful himself. Down below in the dark-paneled foyer, the familiar form of Mrs. Hudson was flitting about using her feather duster. John had purchased an efficient microfibre duster for their landlady, but it remained in the linen closet more often than not. Mrs. Hudson usually baked under stress. Tonight she was too distraught even for baking. She struggled to maintain control of her environment by tidying after the influx of strangers into her home.

Siger called to the woman, his grandmother by adoption, a liquid gurgle of sounds that Sherlock chose to interpret as an update of the situation. Martha Hudson, of course, did not understand. Pausing, she cocked her head to peer at the pair at the top of the staircase. “Sherlock? Siger? Any news?”

Siger had, of course, already told her, and much as Sherlock loathed repetition, he informed his landlady again, “No. The Met are incompetent, and Mycroft can’t find him either. Whoever took him hasn’t demanded a ransom or contacted us in any way. I need more data!” That last was a demand more than information.

A petite wrinkled hand raised to her mouth (“Like a Victorian heroine”, the man whispered to his son), Mrs. Hudson responded, “I’m sure we’ll hear soon, Sherlock. Siger, don’t worry. Your father will bring your daddy back home.”

Not a sigh, more of a huff came from the man’s cupid’s-bow lips. Siger turned his little head to examine his _père_ , then blew out a small puff of air in imitation. Instead of the expected grin in response, Siger found himself crushed into a hug, the dark hair so like his own red curls filling his small mouth. There was no other possible response but a sharp yank - those small fingers could grip tightly - and a disagreeable squall told of the baby’s displeasure.

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice was sharp as she started up the creaking wooden steps. Pulling away, unwrapping the tiny fingers from his hair, the tall man found himself reassuring the pair of them - the deceptively frail-looking woman and his infant son.

“Siger! Let go! Yes, I’m sorry I squeezed you. No, Mrs. Hudson, Siger is fine. I prefer he stay with me at the moment.” It was not much of a reassurance, for what it was worth. But then, sentiment was John’s area, not that of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock’s area was the solving of crimes, the untangling of puzzles. Hoisting Siger onto a slim hip, he began to go over the facts. “It will be data, Siger, data will bring your Daddy home,” he whispered into the little pink ear covered by the curls that looked darker in the closeness of the foyer. He carried his son off of the landing followed by the fussing Mrs. Hudson. Luckily she was distracted by Mycroft’s lackeys and the Detective Inspector’s team. Sherlock Holmes was able to escape upstairs to Siger’s room, closing the solid wooden door firmly behind them.

The rocking chair to the side was generously padded, and the rockers did not creak so much as rumble back and forth on the wooden floor. Sherlock leaned back, elbows on the wooden arms, fingers steepled before his mouth, long legs stretched out before him, thinking. The facts. Sherlock needed to review them. 

John had been taken from Baker Street. The street itself, not the house. Sherlock could run the CCTV footage through his Mind Palace while placing a fraction of his attention on Siger, who was now chasing the miniscule soccer ball across the dragon’s wings embedded in the hooked rug by his crib. The crawling infant, not quite ready to walk, paused from time to time to examine his _père_ , lost in thought.

Pictures. The graying blond doctor bending to pick up a dropped book for an older woman with a cane. A black-clad adolescent - hoodie pulled forward and up to conceal identity - moving forward with the glint of a needle in his hand. Male and adolescent from his stance and gait.

Drab car, just enough street dirt to make it an object of disinterest, pulls up as the woman and boy assist the stumbling man into the back seat before slamming the car door, then walking briskly off in different directions. The woman’s cane now tucked under a wool-clad arm.

NSY minions were in search of the automobile registration, while Mycroft’s merry band of civil servants were attempting to follow the car, the woman, and the boy via CCTV.

Sherlock opened his eyes to the darkness. Nighttime. Curtains were drawn against the streetlights. The small, solid warmth on his chest that had chained him to the chair was gone. The gentle, soft, even breathing in the unseen crib before him was reassuring. Siger was asleep, and someone had managed to feed and put the baby to bed without awakening Siger’s _père_.

Siger’s Daddy was still missing, though. Not dead. If they’d wanted to kill John Watson it was easy enough to do so, no need for the elaborate kidnapping. There was a pattern in this. That organization of facts in the correct order would come in time. “I need more data,” the detective muttered. A small snuffle sounded from the crib. Sherlock waited until Siger’s breathing evened out before quietly making his way from the nursery. 

The common area of the flat remained filled with intruders. Granted, they were quietly involved in their tasks, the lights dimmed, curtains drawn too. The officers of the NSY were an intrusion. Whoever had taken John knew their procedures, surely.

Controlled voices drew him into the kitchen. “If John is dead, they would be using his death to draw our attention in another direction. There is no reason for them to drug him, let alone placing him in a car if they were attempting his murder.” Mycroft’s explanations were always polite, even when he was - as Sherlock could hear in his tone now - fatigued at having to reiterate a point. Sherlock wondered if Lestrade could pick out the inflections at this point in their relationship.

“Ah, Sherlock -” Mycroft called his partner’s attention to the man’s entry “- four hours of sleep. John would be pleased.”

Gregory Lestrade, looking crumpled and tired, opened his mouth for some inanity. Sherlock cut him off with, “Taking up childcare now, Mycroft? Might we be expecting a happy announcement from you and Graham in the upcoming days?”

That brought a short barking laugh from Lestrade. Mycroft raised an eyebrow in what most would think of as a sneer. Sherlock knew it for damning concern. He also knew that Mycroft was preparing to state something he was not interested in hearing.

“No, Mycroft. I refuse to stay here tending to the home while your minions rescue John.” It was not a shout, but anger curdled out of the sharply pronounced words.

Mycroft’s pursed lips answered that question as Lestrade hitched on the lone remaining cafe chair. Lestrade was controlling the impulse to defend his partner, or to insert himself into this personal situation. No change in his elder brother’s face or body language, but Sherlock knew Mycroft had noticed that control. No doubt, Sherlock ruminated sourly, there would be some form of sexual interlude later in response.

“Yes, well,” the consulting detective began, “I am sure you both have elsewhere to go. You need this ‘rest’ as well as I.”

“We will leave after the analysis on the CCTV footage arrives, brother mine.” So. No way to get rid of them. Lestrade was in charge in spite of his connection to the family. The Detective Inspector's superiors must not know about his relationship with Sherlock’s brother, and would think he was best skilled at dealing with Sherlock’s notoriously difficult behavior. At any other time John would be making tea. Mrs. Hudson had obviously supplied that shortfall four hours ago. Sherlock opted not to offer any freshening of the pot or coffee to either of the men in his kitchen. Ordinarily he would take this time to flop onto the couch. That piece of furniture had been moved to set up the command center. Violin. That was up in Siger’s room. One thing that Sherlock did not want to do was wake the baby. He was selfish, he admitted, not stupid.

In lieu of anything else, he elected to taking his dramatic flop to the bedroom. “John Watson, where are you?” came in another murmur into the pillow before Sherlock rolled over, steepled his fingers, and sought his Mind Palace.

John was there. Many facets of John were there. One reason why he’d not spent a good deal of time here lately was the temptation to remain. Surrounded by the elements of John Watson. It was not an option. John needed him, both as a detective and as a partner. Siger needed his _Père_. Siger's _Père_ needed his blogger.

“Frustrated?” John would always state the obvious.

“Why? What data am I missing, John?”

“You’re the genius, not me. I’m just going to state the obvious, as you frequently tell me.” This iteration of John was dressed in his oatmeal jumper. Sherlock knew that article of clothing was waiting in the wicker bin for washing. John had been wearing work clothing: a plaid shirt and dark tie, dark dress shoes from working at the clinic, a jacket instead of the blazer he kept at work. The image in Sherlock’s mind faded out, to be replaced by John as The Kidnapped. There would be tape across his mouth - John’s abuse of the English language could be extensive and crude - and he’d be restrained. Chains straight from a medieval dungeon appeared, then vanished, replaced by plastic ties. They’d drugged the man, so no obvious wounds at this point. Something was incorrect, though.

Whatever had been in the syringe had worked extremely quickly. John had not struggled. There were a limited number of concoctions that would work that efficiently, and only with knowledge of the patient’s weight and physical fitness. 

Sherlock turned to the cardiganned nurse now standing by. “You.” He remembered that she was not the usual receptionist at the clinic, and he had made her cry within the first thirty seconds of her obstructing Sherlock and Siger from speaking with John last week. “Why was Dr. Watson required to track his weight this week?”

“Orders from the clinic’s owners, sir.” There was that meek and downcast face that Sherlock did not trust. When he gestured, she went on, “All of the medical personnel received physicals on Monday. Something to do with a study at Saint Bart’s.”

Physicals. It was out of the ordinary. John’s outfit now reflected his work aspect. For a moment Sherlock received the professional smile, before the John in his Mind Palace broke forth into that glorious grin, a hand reaching forward to touch Sherlock’s cheek. “Have you checked that Siger is getting enough sleep, Sherlock?”

Sleep. The physical, and sleep, and tracking John Watson. Peeking out from the long broadcloth cuff of John’s now light blue striped shirt was the black band of a Fitbit. Sherlock opened his eyes to the hall light, with Gregory Lestrade standing in the open doorway. “Sherlock? The footage analysis is here.”

“Damn the footage. Damn the analysis.” The long, lean man was out of bed and past the Detective Inspector. “Lestrade, do you have John’s laptop?”

“Yeah, it’s in the living room. But we’re keeping an eye on it. No messages have arrived through it, or the site. Nothing on the laptop. No viruses. A few toy sites bookmarked, some medical.” Lestrade knew he could not muster the joy in Sherlock’s brilliance that John did. Right now Greg was too tired, and stressed over the danger to his friend. “What is it?” he asked finally.

“John’s clinic has required him to wear a Fitbit all week, Lestrade.” Sherlock moved past the technicians waiting for the phone to ring, or the text alert to sound.

“Yeah, so?” It sounded like an ordinary thing to Lestrade. It was probably that soon they’d expect him and his officers to do the same.

“He was wearing it when they took him. It’s entirely possible that it was part of the planning behind his kidnapping,” Sherlock said as he flipped open the laptop and typed in John’s pitiful excuse for a password. John changed it about once a week, and waited for Sherlock to suss it out. 

“Why would John’s password be 1 2 3 4? I’ve been meaning to ask?” Lestrade asked.

“Cultural reference. John is fond of them.” Sherlock was typing quickly, bringing up previous screens. With the history showing what the technicians had examined, it took time to finally find the Fitbit records.

“So? John had a Fitbit.” Lestrade was trying to figure out the significance. “Surely they will have removed it. Destroyed it. We can’t find him by following a trace on it, can we?”

Sherlock looked past the Detective Inspector to his brother. “Not a trace of the Fitbits, no. But their mobiles. All of the clinic staff were required to wear these this week. I think it’s where the data was gathered for the dosage when they drugged John.”

“Entirely possible,” agreed Mycroft.

“John mentioned that even the owners used them. Therefore they had someone either among the owners or staff who was close enough to have access. We can try to track John’s Fitbit. It’s what they’ll be expecting. But we can use that to camouflage as we find the location of all the mobiles belonging to the surgery staff. One of those will be near to John. There is a chance they won’t think to shut off their mobiles as they apparently did with John’s.”

An abrupt nod. Then Mycroft was waving one of the techs over to work with Sherlock on “accessing” the necessary databases. Gregory Lestrade called his people into the kitchen for a break - an unnecessary procedure as far as Sherlock was concerned, surely. Link by link they intruded on the privacy of each staff member in the surgery. Finally, the technician asked nobody in particular, “Now, why would a receptionist be transmitting from a garage at this time of night?”

Mycroft asked, “Does that address correlate to any known housing or clinics?”

“No, sir. Commercial garage and businesses. Most of them empty.” 

Scanning through the CCTV signatures, it was obvious that the car they were tracking was heading in the opposite direction. Finding the footage from around the venue would take time. Sherlock was already putting on his Belstaff, however. Lestrade caught him on the stairs. “Sherlock, you are not going anywhere until we know which one has John in it. You said you needed data? Wait for the data.”

“It is possible that I will find that data on-site, Lestrade. I certainly won’t be the one to find it here. Mycroft has far more skillful technicians to troll through that footage.” Looking down the steps into the darkened hallway, it was all Sherlock could do not to race down the stairs and into the street in search of a cab.

Sound traveled down from up in Siger’s room. Their voices had woken the baby. Lestrade looked up toward where Sherlock’s son was imprisoned in the crib. “Spend some time with Siger. You know Mycroft. He’ll get that data for you straightaway. Then we’ll get John back.”

The red curls topping Siger’s head would be showing just above the crib edge. Not long, Sherlock thought, before their 99th percentile baby would outgrow the crib. As he climbed the stairs and stepped quietly into the room, his son smiled cheerily in the darkness - a bright smile that reminded Sherlock of John - before launching into a long series of sounds that his biological father was unable to translate. When _Père_ did not answer the question, Siger held up onesie-striped arms to be picked up and said, “Dada.”

Sherlock obliged. “Siger -” he cleared a gummy throat “- Daddy is still away. We will find him soon, and bring him home.”

The baby nodded his head - other than that bright smile before, Sherlock really could not see his expression - and pronounced, “Dada,” before snuggling into his _père’s_ chest.


	2. Inquiry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Lunamoth116 for beta-ing!

Dr. John Watson was distracted. Heading out to the surgery, he was thinking about the instructional YouTube video he’d just been watching with his son. Siger was picking up sign language much more quickly than John. That was embarrassing. Sherlock was as well. Not quite so embarrassing, as he and Mycroft were geniuses with languages. Thing was, Mycroft and Sherlock and Siger were learning two SLs in the same time that John was stumbling along with plain British Sign Language. Who knew that British and French were so very different when it came to signs? Completely different, as John had come to learn. The only word in French Sign Language that John knew was _père_ , and that was because Siger used it to designate his biological father. His sign for John was _Daddy_.

Obviously Siger was not speaking fluently in sign. The idea was not to have a baby forming complex communication; it was to provide him with a less frustrating method of interacting in day-to-day life before he was ready to form spoken words. They had thought this would help with the expected racing mind striving to communicate that so frequently frustrated Sherlock. For John to have to say over and over, “Please say that again, Siger, but more slowly” was nigh on driving the doctor spare.

A well-dressed, attractive older woman dropped a book to the pavement in front of John - the most recent thriller by an author John followed - and she fumbled with her cane to stoop for it. It was only as John had already started to pick the volume up that he realized the cane was a prop. Something was off in how she used it. He was just glancing sharply up to get a look at her face when he felt the pinch of a needle. Then his legs went out from under him. “Buggery fuck!” he managed before everything went swimmy.

...

John Watson struggled toward the surface of the darkness. It was a bit like swimming - though his arms would not move, and he assumed it was the surface as there was light and sound and movement in that direction as nowhere else about him. Something he’d read in a story came to him. _Breathe out_ , the book had said, _and watch the direction of the bubbles rising._ He tried that. No bubbles.

“The best handcuffs these days come out of a bottle,” a thin, whiny voice spoke to his left. It was no one the doctor knew. 

“Buggery fuck,” he said again as he realized he’d been kidnapped.

A hypodermic needle - he’d had plenty of experiences with those on both ends of the spectrum _thankyouverymuch_ \- slid into his arm. The darkness swallowed him before he had a chance to wonder much of anything else.

Later, in a lucid moment, John surmised that he was spending a good deal of time in the darkness. Moments in the light above were hazy and full of questions. Was this why people thought heaven was up? He asked that. There was a general sense of annoyance whenever he went off the track of answering the questions. It encouraged him to go offline as frequently as possible.

Moriarty? “Jim Moriarty? That utter sh-sh-shite!” John slurred to his interrogators exactly and profanely what he thought of the bastard and his plans. They - and who the hell were they? - seemed very interested in those plans. Right. Moriarty’s hygiene then. Hair product. Choice of boxer brands. That was the ticket.

Information. He needed facts. How would Sherlock put it? “John, you are not completely lacking in common sense. We are in need of data!” 

Himself first, then. His speech was slurring. Effect due to drugs, not a stroke. No paralysis. No other symptoms of stroke. Good. That was good. It was to be hoped that the effects of the drug would wear off. John should know what the chemicals were after that recent article Mycroft had sent him. The names and characteristics were just not coming. He could feel cold air drafting across his exposed skin - face and neck, hands, arms, and, for some reason, his feet. 

No pressure on his bladder, so they must have taken him to the loo. Either that or little time had passed. The bend in his right elbow hurt. Clumsy bastards who didn’t know how to put in a PIC line. Clumsy, yes. Bastards, yes. But they had put in a PIC line? Medical knowledge. Access to medical gear. 

What next? Oh, yes, John told them all about Jim Moriarty’s petty jealous feelings for John’s boyfriend. He could do a good long rant about the word “boyfriend” as opposed to “lover” or “partner”. Flexing his limbs the doctor determined that he was bound. Plastic ties, he thought, sitting upright in a chair. Not wire, which was good. An old office chair. No wheels. His ankles were fastened to metal chair legs. The chair was meant for someone taller, as John could touch the floor if he tried, but his soles were not resting on what seemed to be a cement surface. 

“Dr. Watson, please stop trying to escape and answer our questions,” came that whiny male voice. Male, yes, there were four or five of them coming in and going out of the room. One woman at the beginning who had seemed vaguely familiar. One woman, one man in scrubs who was apparently handling the medication, the woman who was gone now, and two thugs. Wait, didn’t that make six?

“I’m sorry.” John tried to speak as clearly as he could. “What was the question again?”

“Tell us again, where is Culverton Smith being held?”

John spoke gravely, working to enunciate precisely: “Where is Dr. Culverton Smith? Well, I assume he is in gaol awaiting trial. Where do you think he is?”

“He is not in gaol, so far as we can find, Dr. Watson. He has vanished after entering a guilty plea for attempted murder. We wish to find him. Where is he, Dr. Watson? Where did they put him?” Whiny, whiny voice. That tone, that timbre made John wish to answer even less. 

The doctor closed his eyes and started to spin a long and involved description of where they could find Smith, but lost track halfway through of what he was saying. Perhaps, he thought, it would be easier if he just went to sleep. That did not work. They had ice water, the bastards.

“Sodium Amytal,” he said instead. “You’re lucky I’m not on blood thinners.”

“No sleeping quite yet, Dr. Watson. And we know exactly what your physical state is,” replied the whiny voice before it went on. “Tell me about the children. Where did they go? You were a signatory for the adoptions.”

“Sod off!” John knew that was Greg Lestrade’s phrase, but it was useful, and convenient. He heard whispering as the men in the room were considering other tactics. Good! Serve them right if he did get stroppy and uncooperative!

A deeper-voiced man spoke next. “We know where at least one of them is, don’t we, Doctor?”

John Watson wasted a few moments struggling to break the plastic bonds, his language reflecting time well spent in the army. In spite of great anger, no huge adrenaline flow allowed him to break free and destroy his enemies. Falling centimeters back against the metal of the chair, John drew a deep breath. “Keep your filthy hands off of my son,” he grated out.

“Not so much your son, Doctor,” the deep voice sneered, “and I’m sure that he will be more easily obtained while they are looking for you.”

The blond doctor began to laugh, exhausted and a tinge hysterical. “Oh, I doubt you’d be able to pry him away from Sherlock, much less the forces surrounding him now. You tipped your hand when you took me, you know.”

A comment from behind. “He’s coming out of stage 3.”

More of the amytal was administered through the line and John found himself falling into darkness again, to the backdrop of whiny cursing.

…

One of what Sherlock Holmes would hardly call the Met’s finest turned to his coworker. “Lightning always strikes around the old man, doesn’t it?”

Holmes was out, questioning his Homeless Network. The woman didn’t think she was supposed to know about that. Sally Donovan pushed her tightly curled hair back off of her face and gave him a look of scorn. He was used to it. They all were used to Donovan. “Twice in ten years doesn’t count as always, Steadman,” was her answer.

“Okay, but you’ll grant me that Holmes drags trouble around after him, won’t you?” the man persisted. After all, Donovan was usually good for a sharp comment on Sherlock Holmes.

“Have a care, man. That’s his son there.” Sally nodded to where the small ginger toddler had placed himself, gnawing on the wood of the baby gate between the kitchen and where they’d set up in the sitting room. When she met his eyes, the baby gave a burble and let go to totter upright. “Nanananana,” the kid said, and brought two fingers down onto the fingers of his opposite hand what looked like a slap.

“How much can a baby be expected to understand us. Is he hitting himself?” Steadman asked. “What does that say about Holmes as a father?”

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade appeared behind the baby and lifted him up. “It means, Steadman, that you need to be more professional in the home of a victim of kidnapping. Have a little compassion, man!”

“Sorry, sir,” Steadman was quick to answer, “but what’s he doing there?”

Looking up at Lestrade, the child was repeating his gesture from before, while spouting nonsense syllables all the while. “It’s the BSL symbol for ‘daddy’, Steadman. He’s asking for his father, John Watson.”

What could one say to that? “Sorry, sir,” Steadman repeated.

“Why don’t you run down to the panda and relieve Honeychurch? It’s about time for a break for him from the cold.” Steadman knew from Lestrade’s tone that his apology had gotten nowhere. Still, the old man was not one to hold a grudge, and all of his people learned from their screwups, or rapidly got transferred out.

“Do you speak BSL now?” Sally Donovan asked curiously.

Greg Lestrade cradled the baby. “We’ll bring your daddy home, Siger,” he said to the child before answering Sally. “Just a few words. Enough to get by with the lad. If we needed it for a case, I’d have to get an interpreter.”

The dark-skinned woman was examining the little boy in her superior’s arms. The baby was leaning against Lestrade’s chest now, comfortable, watching her with eyes that reminded her of Holmes. “Why does he need BSL? Does he have a hearing problem? Early diagnosis?”

The silver-haired detective inspector grinned. “Nah, all the rage in child-raising circles now. Prevents the frustration of not being able to communicate because the soft palate isn’t ready for spoken words. Siger here is hearing French and Vietnamese with his everyday English, and he’s got the British Sign Language and the French.”

“So many?” Donovan murmured. “How does he keep them all straight? What’s he use for Holmes? As a symbol?”

Lestrade, in that grey suit he wore for court appearances - he’d had one earlier that day - shifted Siger to his left hip, and made a gesture with his right hand that looked like pinching fingers up by his mouth.

“Greg,” Sally commented, “that looks like you’re telling someone to close their mouth.”

“Yah, well, it’s the sign in French Sign Language for _père_.” Sally noticed that her superior’s pronunciation sounded - well, French. He continued, of course, in English, “So far as I know Bert’s not using any form of sign language from Vietnam.”

“Where is the babysitter? I haven’t seen him,” Sally realized as she spoke. The Vietnamese kid didn’t like her, though he was always polite and pleasant enough when she was around. Now she was used to him. Used to him being here the moments she passed in and out trailing after the DI. Even after all the years of drug busts, this was the most she’d spent in 221B Baker Street. Odd place.

“Bert’s home with his family in Paris for Tet. Holiday. Asian New Year. Said he couldn’t get out of it, but I think he was looking forward to going. He gave Siger a little red envelope with a pound note in it before he left. Said something about being the grownup this year. I don’t think he knows about John’s kidnapping yet.”

Siger, hearing Bert’s name, began speaking to Greg, who listened gravely. Siger made a gesture with both hands. “Bert is in Paris with his family celebrating the new year, Siger. Are you ready for bed?” At another gesture, he turned to Sally. “Time to take this fella to bed. Let me know when Sherlock gets in.”

Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan thought that DI Lestrade looked rather comfortable with the baby. It was too bad he didn’t have any children of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Best handcuffs come in a bottle" is from Night of the Morningstar by Peter O'Donnell. It's a Modesty Blaise reference.
> 
> The symbol that Siger uses for Bert is the FSL "pain" (bread).


	3. Interaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's travails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to my beta, Lunamoth116!

When next John Watson awoke, it was just that. An awakening. He woke up to darkness. Not in his room, so it had not been a bad dream. Dreams he was used to. Kidnapping, not so much. Possibly it was the cold that roused him, although he seemed to be under a cheap blanket of some sort. Binding on his wrists and ankles prevented him from sitting up, or indeed escaping. Again, plastic, not wire - they were not trying to damage him. A webbing belt restrained his hips to the cot, which was the most uncomfortable bed he’d slept on since Afghanistan. Worse even than the rocky ground or car seat of a stakeout. He could not shift. Medical knowledge kicked in. Bed sores, though, were the least of his worries.

He was awake. Immobilized, but aware and able to think. The doctor in him checked for pain - there was some in the site of those original injections, and where the plastic ties had rubbed against his skin. His mouth was dry. His throat was sore. Summoning his imagination he thought of small pebbles in the mouth, or a glass of orange juice. Well, that made his stomach growl. It might have been paranoia, but how did his captors not hear that rumble?

The room was not where he’d been interrogated, though it had concrete floors and cinder block walls. It was frigid. John didn’t see his breath steaming, so it couldn’t be all that chilly in spite of the season. Good thing he was still in his clothing - even with the blanket - though he could have wished for his socks. Minimal light formed a bar under the door across the room. Now that he was listening, the bound man could hear voices in the distance. The echoing byplay sounded as though men were playing cards to pass the time, and that the room beyond the door was larger and must be even more sparsely furnished.

There was no gag on his mouth. John didn’t think that shouting would do any good, other than to bring his captors with another hypodermic. Carefully he worked at the bindings, first the wrists, then ankles. No give, and no escaping them. Rolling, throwing his weight, did not move the cot at all. Was it bolted to the floor? 

Throughout all this movement, John also determined that his pockets were empty. If he’d been able to access his mobile, that might have helped. Too bad his captors weren’t stupid. John hoped they hadn’t smashed the phone; it had pictures of Siger that he’d not downloaded yet. 

Bastards! All the worry about his son surged to the front of his mind. Sherlock would keep the baby safe. John had to trust that his partner could take on what John had always thought of as “his job”. 

“Why?” John asked himself. He worked at the bindings again. Why had they allowed him to come out of the drugged stupor? Was it a mistake on their part? No, it was quite clear that they’d known exactly how much to dose him from the start. The doctor in him hoped that Sherlock had been able to follow that clue. It wasn’t a matter of the consulting detective finding him. The question was when would he be found? And in what state?

Should he pretend to be unaware when they came back in? Again, they seemed to know his physical status to the dot on the “i” so far. Of course he wasn’t hooked up to any monitors. It became moot when John fell asleep, alone and bored in the dark.

A screeching of metal chair legs on cement flooring bled through the door, and John woke again, and waited. When the door finally opened and light flooded into his room, the blond doctor blinked and did his best to mark where he was, and who was coming through the doorway. 

“Alright, Doc.” Those words were almost cheerful, said in a nasal voice. “Time for your next shot. We’ll give you a bit of time after for it to take effect, and then take you on in to your lovely chair in the other room. Like that, would you?”

“Water,” John requested in as rasping a voice as he was able. Yes, he needed the water, but there was also the chance that they’d think he was more debilitated than he was.

“In a bit. Unless you’d like to give us the answers without the meds? No? Suit yourself.” 

The needle went in first - not that John felt the pinch since it was jammed into the PIC line. He could feel the flow of the drug into his arm - always an odd experience. Then, as things started to get a little fuzzy, there was a mouthful of water, then another. “Relax, now, Doc,” the voice told him. “In no time we’ll be back for your next session.” 

John could feel the friendly slap on his cheek, and then he lost track again.

…

Caring was not an advantage. The elder Holmes found it interfered with the functioning of his rational brain. When had Mycroft Holmes started caring what happened to John Watson?

A weak bit of input from one of the agents around the table disturbed him. “Mr. Holmes, you know as well as I do that there is a substantial chance that Dr. Watson is dead.”

“Do not quote the statistics to me unless I ask for them,” Mycroft said sharply to forestall the man. He didn’t need any more rubbish cluttering up his working brain.

Turning to his brother beside him, the minor official in the British Government simply said, “No!” before Sherlock could cut Carruthers to pieces. There were better uses for Sherlock’s razor of a brain, if not the sharp edge of his tongue.

Those instituting this kidnapping were not Jim Moriarty. They didn’t have the insane and unexpected brilliance leading them. They were not Dr. Culverton Smith. They did not have the dumb luck. They were a diligent band of hardworking goldfish. Between his own mind and Sherlock’s, they would find them, and bring John home.  
…

In the end it was not Mycroft’s intelligence web, nor Sherlock’s Homeless network, nor the Fitbit, nor the tracking of phones that rescued Dr. John Watson. The clue that led them to the kidnapped man came from a tip-off from a “source” to a local constable. A rather nosy old woman - she refused to allow her name credited for fear of reprisal - told her neighbor, and her neighbor’s daughter, that something “not right” was going on in a garage down the way.

The neighbor’s daughter was the constable who had stopped at her mother’s for “a cuppa” after work. When questioned, the wrinkled twig of a woman next door admitted that it was just strangers having rented out Tommy Smith’s garage, nobody from around here, no. But they were not bringing in any vehicles, after that first taxicab to the building. There were comings and goings, of course - all men, she said, who’d walked down to the crossroads to catch a car or a taxicab. But then you would expect men in a garage, wouldn’t you?

“What do you think is going on?” asked the PC whose last name was improbably “Copper”. 

“Drugs!” The old woman leaned forward and pointed with her teacup to emphasize her point. Sweet white liquid sloshed over the rim, and she caught that with the saucer, drinking that down before going on with, “A sorry-looking lot. Even that flash gent in the suit. He’s Mr. Big, mark my words. That three-piecer could only come from politics or drug money!”

PC Copper reported her mother’s neighbor’s words to a supervisor, who passed it on up the line. A drugs bust was organized and carried out. What a surprise the officers found in Tommy Smith’s garage when they pushed in through two different entryways to find an oil-stained concrete floor, a collapsible card table with metal chairs surrounding it, two TV tables with computer equipment on top of them, a bunch of armed thugs, and a man drugged and chained to a cot in the back room. 

The only drugs discovered were in measured syringes for use, apparently, on the imprisoned man who looked vaguely familiar. There were printed pages of transcript from a series of interrogations. A laptop connected to the cloud provided the recordings themselves. There was no way of knowing - yet - who else could access those recordings online.

The EMT team arrived and were directed to a back room, an old-fashioned hospital bed, and a drugged blond man who was still zip-tied to the dropped metal sides. They checked his vitals while the people from the Met dusted the zip ties for prints before slicing through them. “Hey!” The first to reach the bed turned. “Miranda!”

“It’s John Watson,” the woman said, startled.

“Who?” the Met officer asked. “You know this man?”

Eyes were not rolled, but only just. “John Watson, Sherlock Holmes’s blogger. He’s a consultant for the Met. Didn’t you find any ID yet?”

“It’s being processed,” was the reply through gritted teeth. No one likes being told her job.

“John? Can you talk to me?” The EMT went through procedure as well. It wasn’t until they got the man into the ambulance and were on the way to the A&E that both medical workers got on their mobiles.

…

Siger Holmes had been put to bed late. Mycroft Holmes was trying to get some food into the boy’s father when they heard feet banging up the seventeen steps to the flat. Mycroft’s mobile rang, then Sherlock’s text alert sounded. Greg Lestrade appeared in the doorway, his mouth open to speak when Sherlock interrupted him. 

“John’s been found.” It was a statement, not a question, as he looked down to see two text messages. One was from Mike Stamford, the other from Molly Hooper.

“It seems that John is at Saint Mary’s.” Sherlock read the text message from Stamford.

Greg Lestrade’s exasperated look to Mycroft Holmes preceded his remark: “I don’t know why I bother. Oh, wait, because it’s John! Who is alright, by the way. Drugged off his arse, but not shot or knifed or dead.” 

Sherlock nodded in a way that could be taken for thanks, or acknowledgement of Lestrade’s existence, or at something in his mind palace as he moved rapidly onto the landing. “Mrs. Hudson!” he shouted down the stairs. “John’s been found. Would you watch Siger while I go to Saint Mary’s?”

It was a matter of moments before Sherlock had transferred the sleeping baby from his crib to the carry cot in Mrs. Hudson’s sitting room. Then all three of the men who had been watching and waiting found their way to Saint Mary’s A&E - Sherlock via taxicab, Lestrade driving his own car, and Mycroft transported by his driver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I refer you to the Patron Saint of Idiots series by Whitchry9, all about the travails of medical techs who have to work with Sherlock.
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/series/123123


	4. Interval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things do not always go the way they were planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lunamoth116 for beta-ing!
> 
> And thanks to Chironsgirl for some suggestions she made in the first story.

Joey was excited. Moments ago the “big three” had come hustling out of 221B like wasps from a rocked nest. 

Everyone knew who Sherlock Holmes was, of course - always in the papers. He and the red-headed gent were the ones he’d been told “must never see” Joey. At all. This was important. Joey had received instructions, and he’d been reporting on the burner to the man Scully had worked for before. Scully had never been caught either, and they both knew the ins and outs of moving about the street without being seen. Here on Baker Street nobody looked twice at a boy in a hoodie, provided it was a high-end bit of clothing, your hair was well-cut, you didn’t smell cheap, you spoke RP, and you moved like you belonged. Joey knew enough to frequent the local shops, like Speedy’s, to have an excuse for hanging about. They all thought he lived ‘round here.

The other man was also in the news - Detective Inspector Lestrade. Joey had no plans to come to his notice either. He’d no criminal record, and no plans to get caught.

The bunch of them didn’t leave together. The DI got into a panda and drove himself off, leaving an officer behind to watch the door. The ginger must have money, because a posh black car with a stone-faced driver took him away. Sherlock Holmes - he usually either walked or hailed a taxi - raised his arm and moments later was off in a cab. They were all off their separate ways. First time in the week that one of the three was not inside of the Baker Street house. And that left Joey with an opportunity.

It hadn’t been explicit. He’d been hired for quick thinking. He’d been told that if there was an opportunity, to nick the kid. Well, that would be worth good money, wouldn’t it? There was no copper at the back door; he’d checked that out night after night, hadn’t he? Knew the layout of the house, didn’t he? Joey could get in the back, past the old lady, up the stairs and back down and out with the kid while the police staking out the place were busy in that front room. 

What had that guy in Speedy’s - Mr. Chatterjee, he thought it was - said? Herbal soothers? The old lady wouldn’t wake up. 

Joey waited until the lights went out downstairs, gave the old woman some time to fall asleep, then slipped around back. He kept his picks in the pocket of his hoodie. _Just like a kangaroo,_ he thought, and laughed at his own joke. Holding the penlight in his teeth, he got to work.

…

Sherlock stood by John’s temporary bedside, watching. He’d tried sitting, and it hadn’t worked. Pacing was out of the question, due to the size of the bay in the A&E. The graying blond of his partner’s hair did not stand out so much on the white of the hospital cot as it did against the ivy green of the sheets currently covering their queen-sized bed at home. Nothing to worry about, the medical professionals had told him. Dr. Watson was responding well to treatment. Which meant that they’d made use of the PIC line, and were letting his system detoxify with a saline drip. A sucrose drip hung next to it.

John had not been tortured - no bruises or marks of misuse, except where his wrists and ankles were abraded from the bonds. John was dehydrated, and likely had not eaten since his capture. This meant another night spent in hospital watching over his bedside. To be fair, John never meant to end up in a hospital bed. Perhaps they were growing too old for such adventures. Sherlock knew what John Watson would say to that, though. And it would be loud and mostly profane. 

Lestrade was off ferreting out more information about the raid that had found John. Not being in the chain of command, it was likely the Detective Inspector would have to move carefully and tactfully. Sherlock would be able to read the scene, read the men involved, but he was not leaving John. Sentiment. No one was going to take John Watson from his hospital bed. The tall dark-haired man hovering over the short, blond danger addict’s bed knew that. He did not leave. He did not sit. He watched his chosen partner and pressed this aspect of him into a drawer in John’s room of his Memory Palace.

Mycroft, reading glasses sliding down his long beaky nose, ignored his brother as he perched in the hideous plastic hospital chair and directed his people to tighten surveillance on the children from the Initiative, to further obfuscate the whereabouts of Dr. Culverton Smith - that much they’d learned from the transcripts found at the scene. Mycroft’s tenor was a drone in the background as his brother stared at John lying sleeping in the bed.

…

Martha Hudson was having trouble sleeping. With Siger in her care, she never took her herbal soothers. It just didn’t seem right. The ache in her hip woke her up from a dream that John had gone to Glasgow for a medical conference, and was holed up in his hotel fighting - in completely logical dream parlance - an attack by evil tomatoes of all things. Why Martha would be at the conference and not Sherlock and Siger, she was sure she didn’t know. Though perhaps it was best that Siger would not be under assault by killer vegetables. Or were they fruits?

The plumbers would have to be called in. Oh, not for the tomatoes, but because Alice Brown had reported a brown noxious sludge bubbling out of the kitchen drain in 221C. Sherlock thought it was a chemical reaction, and “nothing to worry about, Mrs. Hudson. You have copper pipes,” but he was so distracted with John being kidnapped. Alice Brown put up with it, as she put up with a lot of things, but clearly it was the landlady’s task to remediate, or find someone who could.

Siger cooed in his sleep. She’d had them put the carrycot between her bed and the wall. Martha was not one who really appreciated having police taking up residence in her home. They were obliging in helping her move furniture while John was gone, though, and appreciative of a pot of tea and a tray of biscuits from time to time. She’d asked them to shift the carrycot last thing before bed. The nice young man - Honeychurch, was it? - had managed the move without waking the sleeping baby. That was a feat in itself. 

Still, the new placement just seemed safer all around. Martha knew that the baby was not walking yet. It would be just like a Holmes to learn to climb before he could walk, and then who knew where he would get off to in his explorations. Actually, it was quite lovely having the company. Restful. Martha might even be able to get some sleep in spite of her hip.

…

Steadman shuffled about at his post in front of the black door on Baker Street. His second shift today and the night was so much quieter. Boring. Not as many people passing by now that the shops and shows were closed. Of course, standing in front of Sherlock Holmes’s house, the natural thing to do was try to figure out what Holmes would notice about the passersby. What did he see? The old woman who lived next door trundled a wire cart coming back from Tesco. She was tired, but gave him a saucy wink as she passed. That kid who always wore a hoodie - he lived in the neighborhood - came out of Speedy’s and headed down the street. Must be a hot date, the pace he was going. Car, taxi, car. Quiet for a while, then a clanking from the tube stop down the street. 

A kid, a boy in his late teens or early twenties, was hauling a piece of luggage up the steps. The rolling wheels were audible once he got them situated and pulled the dark suitcase after him. There was nobody else on the street, and Steadman watched the kid’s progress until he stopped in front of the stoop and looked up at the policeman. “What’s going on?”

An Asian young man, no accent, dressed well, if not as nicely as the hoodie kid. “Nothing to see here, move along,” Steadman told him.

“I live here,” the kid told him with a face so earnest it had to be false.

“Pull the other one, kid.” Steadman was certain he’d not heard anything about an Asian teenager living with the old lady, nor Holmes. No room, for one thing.

Pushing the handle down into the top of the rolling bag, the boy reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a keyring. Shaking it until he found one particular key, the boy held that up. “Key to the house,” he said pleasantly. Then, as an afterthought: “Is Mrs. Hudson here? She can vouch for me if Mr. Holmes or Dr. Watson aren’t in.”

With a “feel free” gesture, Steadman stepped aside, watching the kid haul his suitcase up the steps and unlock the front door to see the hallway behind filled by moving figures in the darkness. The light clicked on from above and Donovan was standing at the top of the stairs attempting to open the baby gate. Downstairs there was one small, old woman in lacy nightwear wielding a large fry pan against a thin familiar boy in a hoodie that did not seem to be protecting him overmuch from the heavy iron.

…

They were now in a single room of the hospital. Mycroft’s voice droned on in the background. Sherlock thought that Lestrade must have rather a boring home life if Mycroft was continuing his penchant for devoting his life to the country. His attention was for the most part focused on John, still lying in his bed, but sleeping now, as the nurse had given him a sleeping pill. John had given him explicit instructions to go home, eat something, and get some sleep. That was not going to happen, of course. There was nothing else to do but sink into his Mind Palace, or listen to Mycroft. Sherlock was too afraid to miss something with John, even sleeping, if he entered the Mind Palace now. So Mycroft it was.

Ah, speaking of Lestrade, there was the sickeningly sweet ringtone that signaled his calls to Sherlock’s brother. “Greg?” Mycroft sounded startled.

Even with the mobile pressed against his brother’s ear, Sherlock could clearly hear the Detective Inspector’s words. “Tell that git to turn his mobile on. I’ve been texting him for the past ten minutes. There’s been an attempt to kidnap Siger, and he’ll need to come home.”

An unsuccessful attempt. Lestrade sounded tired, but not concerned. No one was hurt. Mrs. Hudson? Siger! 

“Mycroft!” Was that himself speaking? It sounded from a distance. “You will watch John and report every minute detail when I return with Siger. Do not allow him to be re-kidnapped or harmed. Surely you can manage that?” The Belstaff was off its chairback in a moment and swung around his shoulders. 

“Take my car, Sherlock. No need for your taxis at this time of night.” Mycroft’s voice was bone dry as he went on, “I shall take it in trust to guard your partner. I had nothing of importance going on tomorrow in any case. I’m sure radicals all over the world will wait until you have returned before requiring my attention.” 

Without thinking, Sherlock pressed a kiss to the sleeping doctor’s greying blond hair. “See that you do.” Then, as an afterthought: “Thank you, Mycroft.” And the consulting detective swept out of the room while threading arms through the sleeves of the black Belstaff coat.

“Was this what you were looking for, John?” Mycroft commented to the sleeping man. “When you moved into the flat? An almost limitless amount of flurry and adventure? Tedious.” He expected no reply, and indeed did not get one. Calling his driver to warn him to be ready for Sherlock, Mycroft checked his bodyguards’ positions, then went back to work.

...

The car delivered the detective to the entrance of New Scotland Yard, and not Baker Street. There were herds of the goldfish-brained, those who had chosen this evening to become involved in an immense club fracas - no casualties, but statements and all of the boring paperwork required to keep the Met busy. Frustrating.

Holmes found Mrs. Hudson sitting on what was obviously some officer’s desk chair, more comfortable than the cheaper, more rigid seats from which the others around them gave testimony. She did not see Sherlock, but her eyes flickered over to a bench by the wall, a waiting area. Ah, Siger was asleep, those soft red curls against Albert Tran’s shoulder. 

_“Chúc Dồi Dào Sức Khỏe Sống Hơn Trăm Tuổi_ ,” Sherlock gave the greeting he’d been practicing for Bert’s return, while reaching for his son. 

Bert’s reply was in Nam Viet, which was foolish, as he knew Sherlock did not speak the language, and indeed was already turned to leave - taking Siger with him. Holmes reached the exit before realizing this was “a bit not good”, as John would have said. Also, they needed data. He quietly said as much to the sleeping baby.

Turning back, he found that Lestrade had joined Bert on the bench by the wall, sharing a bag of crisps. “You’re back? Bert said you’d taken Siger off. I thought you’d be heading to the hospital and John.”

“Nonsense, Lestrade. That would be extremely discourteous. Mycroft will watch over John while we assist you in your attempt to find out who kidnapped John and attempted to kidnap Siger.” Sherlock thought he had phrased that completely politely.

“We? You and…” Lestrade paused while he looked at Bert. Then, catching up with his racing brain, he said sourly, “No. You and the baby. Sherlock, you are not going to question the hoodlum who tried to kidnap your son while Siger is present.” Lestrade felt he had said that with an immense amount of patience.

There was a pause before his friend, the lunatic consulting detective, spoke again: “Of course not, Lestrade. It’s Bert’s job to care for Siger, and prevent him from being introduced to the unsavory aspects of our professions.” A turn of the head and a raised eyebrow encouraged Albert to become involved in the conversation. 

“Sherlock,” Bert pointed out, “to do that I would have to take Siger.”

Holmes looked down at the tiny form cradled against the dark of his wool coat. Cuddling him closer, he suggested absently, “Perhaps I can watch your interrogation of the suspect from the room next door, Lestrade? Siger will remain asleep. Bert can join me, and, if there is an issue, will take him out?”

“Albert is a witness, Sherlock,” Lestrade pointed out quietly. “For him to watch the interrogation would prejudice his testimony.”

Sherlock’s huff of exasperation caused the baby to stir, then settle down with a small puff of his own. Meanwhile Gregory Lestrade was going on with, “And you, as the victim of the crime most certainly shouldn’t be sitting in on it.”

“It’s not as though you won’t be showing me the evidence later on, Lestrade,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Probably,” countered the Detective Inspector. “But right now you need to collect Mrs. Hudson, who was attacked tonight, and take her home. Bert can fill you in on it all. After all, the perpetrator stated that it was ‘the ninja guy was the one who took me down. I was just in that house by mistake, and the Shaolin Guy assaulted me!’”

Sherlock gave Bert a sideways look. “Have you taken lessons in ninjutsu or kung fu while you were home for Tet, Bert?” he asked.

“Not me,” Bert laughed, and told him, “Mrs. Hudson was wanging away at the kid with a frying pan. Detective Sergeant Donovan jumped over the baby gate and was flying down the steps. The kid tried to run past me and the constable coming in the front door, and I put my foot out and tripped him.” He added, “Siger slept through it all.”

“Well -” the younger Holmes smiled slightly “- John will have to hear all about it from you tomorrow. He will appreciate it, I’m sure.”

They collected Mrs. Hudson and took a taxi back to Baker Street, the three adults squashed in the back seat with Siger somewhat illegally on their laps. Mrs. Hudson, of course, wanted to hear all about John. Bert asked them what was going on, and why the exciting things occurred while he was on holiday? Sherlock could reassure his landlady and friend about his partner’s health and safety. He was unable to give Bert any satisfactory answer to the _au pair’s_ question.

After ascertaining that Mrs. Hudson was indeed of sturdy stock, and now - with the aid of her herbal soothers - was going to go straight to bed without even washing her frying pan, Sherlock fell asleep in his and John’s bed. Siger in his carrycot, now installed beside their bed, lulled his _père_ to sleep with the sound of his own steady, sleeping breathing.


	5. Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John awakens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-ing!

John Watson dreamed. The atmosphere was different from the hallucinations he’d had in fever, or the slow lack of clarity from being drugged. Most of his dreams were not worth remembering - nightmares of IEDs going off, of blood and panic and fright on the faces around him. The quiet echo of voices flickering like the reflections of water moving on the walls and ceiling of a closed swimming pool. A black cloak-like figure dropping, spread on the wind, off of the roof of Saint Bart’s - John running, pushing against time that refused to let him save his friend. Why would anyone wish to remember those dreams?

Now, though, John wanted to keep the dream. He wanted to fold it up carefully and save it. The bed he lay on was firm, but not hard like the cot he’d been tied to. Light dusted in through the sheers on the windows to envelope the family. Sherlock held Siger on his lap, their big boy, long legs like his father’s sticking out to the side like the grasshoppers John remembered seeing in his Aunt Harriet’s back yard.

Siger was teaching his _père_ a song - it was about the galaxy. John was lying on his side. He could not see the baby he was holding, but he knew - as one does in dreams - that it was snuggled in swaddlings next to his stomach. Sounds drifted in from the front of the flat, and the sleeping doctor knew that his sister, Mrs. Hudson, their friends and family were there waiting for them. No rush. No pain. No sadness.

The sharp shriek of a squeaky, recalcitrant lunch cart wheel changed the scene drastically as John opened his eyes to the hospital room. In the old days, hospital rooms were white, to signify cleanliness. This room was not bright white, more a neutral beige now, with heavy blue drapes closed against the sunlight. His Sherlock was sitting in a chair meant to simulate comfort for a grieving family member. It was a washed-out color that made even the detective’s vibrant, tailored outfit look awful next to it.

“Where is -” John’s dried throat prevented him from finishing his sentence as he choked.

“Siger is being changed by Uncle Detective Inspector Lestrade down the hall.” John’s tall, thin partner stood to retrieve a lidded cup studded with condensation drops, and held the straw to John’s lips. The cold water vanished before it could do more than waft through John's dry mouth. The straw disappeared to his croaked protest. "More later," his cruel partner offered before asking, "Do you need the loo?"

John was assisted to the loo, hustled into the shower, dried thoroughly and carefully, and helped back to a freshly changed bed with a clean tee shirt and pair of boxers before Greg returned with Siger.

John, you're awake!" 

John knew that Lestrade was stating the obvious to irritate the younger Holmes. He looked to his boy riding the Detective Inspector’s hip, and saw his son’s face light up at John’s smile. “Ba!” That was a shout that drowned out Sherlock’s huff of annoyance. Siger’s fingers tapped his hand to say _Daddy!_ before reaching for his father. 

“You’d think he’d not seen you in a year,” Greg commented, bringing the child within the length of John’s own reaching arms.

“Git,” John mouthed as he hugged the baby. Looking over at his partner, he asked, “You okay?”

Sherlock had not been getting enough sleep, and John could read that in his face. The wry smile that the man gave told John that Sherlock knew exactly what he had been thinking. “Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson have been making me eat and sleep, John. Siger has thriven on the state of chaos in our flat - always someone to talk to, or to get his ball when he ‘accidentally’ drops it over the baby gate. Except for Sergeant Donovan, who pointed out that he’d done it purposely, and therefore it counted as a lost soccer ball.”

Siger began to explain to his father that there were some new people living with them since John had gone. Sherlock’s translation listed the foolishness of the officers under Lestrade’s supervision, and the infantile shenanigans of those serving Uncle Mycroft. This was, of course, when Mycroft entered the room.

The minor official for the British Government carried his umbrella and a white paper bag. “I heard that, Sherlock, as you meant to happen. My agents are neither infantile nor foolish enough for shenanigans. They are not James bloody Bond.”

Siger was still talking to John, but took time from his discourse to wave at Uncle Mycroft, who gravely signed back to the child. John had no idea what those symbols meant. So far as he knew there was no sign for Mycroft. Of course “Umbrella” sounded like it would suit.

Mycroft placed the white bag on the side table and opened it to release the fresh smell of Mrs. Hudson’s currant scones. “Mrs. Hudson sent these along to tempt your appetite.”

While Siger was feeding John pieces of scone, Mycroft pulled a slim file from his suit coat pocket. “Here are some pages of the transcription of your interrogation. Do you feel well enough to go over this?” Mycroft would never sound nurturing, but John realized that the man was about as caring as he was going to get. 

John, his mouth filled with currant scone, nodded, then had to work to keep the pages from Siger’s scone-crumbed fingers. “Well -” his eyes moved down the page “- I was saying a great deal of nonsense, wasn’t I?”

“Yes, you did seem to go off on tangents constantly,” Mycroft commented. “Why was that, John?”

“It came from John’s appalling taste in literature, Mycroft,” the younger Holmes told them as he lifted Siger from his father’s bed and took him off to the loo for a wash.

John grinned watching them, his partner and his son. Stretching his stiff neck as he turned to watch Mycroft pinching Sherlock’s seat, John gave a nod. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? That’s what they talk about in the thrillers.”

Mycroft - in the midst of putting on reading glasses - gave John a disapproving look. “Usually we tend to advise civilians to tell the villains whatever they want to know, if possible. There is the chance of death following that, but if they were going to murder you they would not have taken such care in your treatment.”

Greg gave a snort of laughter. “Villains, is it?”

“Villains.” Mycroft gave him the look now. “They were peons. Low-level thugs, for the most part. We are attempting to follow the channels through which they were hired. It is taking some time.”

John heard that with interest. “So you’ve not caught them all?”

With a shake of his head, Mycroft began to read through a list. “Do any of these names sound familiar?”

“No,” John gave his own head shake. “There was a woman. Well, there were two women. There was the one with the cane who decoyed me so that someone could stick a needle in my neck. She had a cane, but there was something not quite right about how she was using it.”

Sherlock had returned with a fresh-faced Siger. “They tailored that decoy to suit your tastes, John. Attractive woman, well-dressed, largish bosom, in obvious difficulty - even the book she dropped was one from a series that you are currently reading.”

“Largish bosom?” John said incredulously. “Did you think I would be distracted by a pair of tits? Beg your pardon, Siger.”

Sherlock looked uncomfortable. “It had crossed my mind that they knew your tastes outwardly. They had been spying upon you. Perhaps it is a taste you are not consciously aware of.”

Greg and Mycroft were holding very still, and not looking at either of them. John began to laugh. “You git. Any one of the women I used to date would have fit that description. But I haven’t dated them for some time, now have I?”

The detective straightened, some tension leaving his frame as he turned to look down his nose at his brother. “Mycroft, I believe that is my seat.”

John, still laughing, waved him over. “Come and sit with Siger and me.” It was a command from Captain Watson, and designed to cut the contention short. 

Four pairs of eyes watched the dark-haired man slide his tailored derrière onto the hospital bed next to John Watson. Greg Lestrade’s eyebrows were raised in amusement over this. Mycroft seemed startled. Siger was pleased that _père_ was joining them on the unusual bed. The baby began to explore the side rails, crawling from John’s lap to look over that side of the bed. John was, of course, watching his partner’s well-formed derrière, and wondering what the BSL word was for “nice arse”.

John Watson leaned slightly into the man beside him, but turned his question to Mycroft Holmes. “How will we prevent them from attempting this again? I’m not as concerned about myself as I am about Siger, of course. They threatened to steal him.”

The dark baritone of the man beside him came through aggrieved: “If the Detective Inspector had allowed me to attend the interrogation of the suspect, then I might have been able to assist in that.”

Greg waved a finger. “Not going there. You were not going to take Siger and Albert into that room with you.”

John turned to peer up at the taller man. “What suspect? You took Siger to the Met?”

“The man who attempted to kidnap Siger, John. I realize that you are recovering from the drugs they pumped into your system, but do try to keep up. A young man picked the lock on Mrs. Hudson’s back door last night. You had just been found, and I was on my way to the hospital. We are at Saint Mary’s, by the way. Mycroft was attempting to race my taxicab with his car and driver. He lost, of course - there is little to stand in the way of a cabbie who has received sufficient incentive to break traffic laws. Lestrade went off to find out what he could about your incarceration.”

John took a deep breath. Motioning toward the cup of ice water, he received it, took a drink, handed it back, and took another deep breath. “Someone attempted to kidnap Siger. Yes, Sherlock, I know you loathe repetition. After that past few days, I do, too. But I need to process this.

“Why is Siger not kidnapped? You left him alone? Or with Mrs. Hudson, I am assuming. Then you all can tell me how you found me, as I still have not heard that bit.” John congratulated himself on not using a single profane word. He did, however reach down and retrieve his son from where the baby was attempting to stuff the “call button” into his mouth.

Sherlock was looking at Lestrade, keeping his mouth firmly shut. The Detective Inspector looked a bit put out. “There were officers on-site. Donovan was there, and took the man into custody, and he did not ever get even a look at Siger, John.”

John Watson waved a hand for him to get on with it.

Greg cracked a grin. “Well, according to our perpetrator, he was in the house accidentally when the crazy lady with the frying pan took after him. He tried to get out of her way and ran smack into a Shaolin ninja monk who took him down with kung fu martial arts.”

John blinked. Siger began to gnaw on John’s calloused fingers. Was he getting another tooth? “Mrs. Hudson hit him with the frying pan?”

Greg Lestrade nodded.

John turned and asked Sherlock, “Didn’t she hit you with her frying pan when you came home after being dead?”

Sherlock Holmes winced, more at John’s reference to that time than to the memory of Mrs. Hudson’s frying pan. “Yes. It’s more the size of the pan that’s frightening, and not the strength with which she does not wield it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Greg told them, “the kid’s not hurt or anything. Not even when Bert tripped him.”

“Bert’s back?” John was feeling confused. “Is his holiday over already?”

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and shared the display with John. 

John’s voice rose: “It’s been _five bloody days?_ ” 

Mycroft hastily rose, scooped up the baby and went out, while John’s voice got louder and more vulgar.

Sherlock began to read something on his mobile. Greg looked impressed at the scope and coarseness of John’s screed. Eventually the short blond doctor began to wind down. After another deep breath and a mouthful of water, he lay back against the pillows and said sourly, “So how did you find me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Galaxy Song, written (and sung here) by Eric Idle.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=buqtdpuZxvk


	6. War Council

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprise for John and Sherlock!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 - my fearless beta-reader.

“Dada!” Siger exclaimed to his Daddy, dropping his much loved football to let it bounce off under a table.

“Siger!” John sat up in excitement. “Was that a word?”

Siger gabbled a long string of sounds in explanation, waving his hands toward Sherlock before repeating “Dada.”

John looked to Siger’s _père_ for translation. The tall dark-haired detective stood still, eyes turned inward, searching his Mind Palace. “Sherlock?” John prodded the man gently before Siger could become bored and stroppy. 

Sherlock shook himself and stared at John, with Siger watching him from his Daddy’s arms. “John…” Words failed him.

Smiling, John spoke quietly into Siger’s ear: “Tell _père_ that it’s always something, isn’t it?”

Siger grinned, showing growing teeth and gums, then rattled off something that sounded quite like “It’s always something,” but was not.

“This is an important step in Siger’s development! His first spoken word, and I cannot tell the date or time! I did not reinforce the behavior!” There are few things more heartbroken than a first-time parent missing an important step.

“A bit preoccupied, were you?” John teased.

He was echoed by Siger’s “papapapappaa,” followed by a gentle raspberry. 

“There, you see?” The blond doctor grinned from his hospital bed. “Siger says not to worry.”

Leaning down, those long arms lifted the baby - growing so quickly now - and spoke to him seriously face-to-face: “My apologies, Siger.”

Siger, hanging in space from his father’s strong hands, reached forward to take advantage of an opportunity to grasp one of Sherlock’s curls. Tugging hard enough to make his _Père_ wince, Siger reassured him with, “Dada.”

“ _Je suis père, Siger_ ,” Sherlock enunciated.

Siger released the hank of soft, dark hair to sign _père_.

Sherlock nodded and responded, ‘Yes, Siger, _père_.” Turning the baby to hitch him onto a bony hip, Sherlock nodded to his partner, still looking pale and ill. “There is your Daddy,” he told the baby.

Siger’s right hand signed “daddy,” as his little pink lips blew a juicy raspberry.

A tap on the doorframe announced Uncle Mycroft and Uncle Detective Inspector Lestrade. Siger held his hands out to the slender ginger-haired man and demanded, in not so many words, to be transferred to his uncle’s arms. “Up,” he signed, and then the symbol for Mycroft that John still did not understand the meaning of.

“Fine.” Sherlock rolled his eyes as he handed the baby to his brother. “What do you want now, Mycroft?”

“We are here,” Mycroft told them as he took Siger in a competent and careful hold, “to discuss recent events and plan for how to prevent future similar issues.”

Siger looked into Mycroft’s face and signed, then gabbled a long stream of syllables ending with, “Dada.”

Mycroft nodded gravely. “Yes, Siger, we will need everyone’s input.”

“War council,” Lestrade said, dropping his overcoat over the back of the less-than-comfortable guest chair. Nobody answered him except Siger, and he looked up to see John and the younger Holmes staring at Mycroft. “What? What did I miss?”

John began to laugh. Sherlock demanded angrily, “You can understand him. He wouldn’t call you ‘Daddy’.”

Mycroft looked taken aback. “Naturally not. And he did not. I assumed you taught him the word.”

Still laughing, John choked out, “What word? What is he saying?”

“Siger told me we would need data. As indeed we do. There is no need to look so startled,” came Mycroft’s aggrieved tenor.

“Data,” Sherlock Holmes repeated. “My son’s first word is ‘data’.”

John kept laughing and could not stop until tears began to fall from his eyes. This startled Siger, who indicated to Uncle Mycroft that he wanted to be put down on his Daddy’s bed. Crawling up to the sitting John Watson, Siger climbed into his lap and examined the tears running down his cheeks.

…

 

The War Council, as Lestrade had named it, was very simple really. John and Greg listened while Mycroft and Sherlock went over the pieces of the puzzle presented to them. Once or twice they chipped in with something - usually either a medical or police procedure.

Sherlock had brought a largish bag of toys to keep Siger occupied. John took on the task of keeping their son busy, building rickety stacks of blocks on John’s blanket-covered legs, rolling the tiny soccer ball up and down the length of the bed. 

“You’re not taking any chances with Siger,” John broke into Mycroft’s suggestion concerning using bait to draw out the conspirators. He went on, “Or any other of the children from the Initiative.”

Mycroft calmly lifted an eyebrow. “I was thinking of you, John.”

Sherlock argued, “They won’t be after John anymore.”

“No, but I would like to distract them a bit. Cause them to think we believe they were all caught in the net when John was rescued.” Mycroft Holmes glanced over at the Detective Inspector. “We need to explore the council they have retained, and there are a number of avenues we can research. Including Dr. Smith. He seems to have been holding some information in reserve.”

“Look,” said John with what he felt was a world of reasonableness, “I want to go home. I do not want to be living with Sergeant Donovan in our laps. No offense, Greg, nor you either.”

“Oh, I believe we can watch you far less obtrusively, John,” Mycroft put in smoothly.

“Dada,” Siger said loudly.

Sherlock snickered. “Data. These were all medical service corporations. Go through the orders from the Initiative and find whatever companies were not ordered from. Or were ordered from exclusively - though I’d think that one of Moriarty’s companies would know better. If you find they’d not ordered from the leading manufacturers for their supplies, then that’s a link. Cross-reference them with what prices any of the suspected companies offered at that time.”

Turning to his partner, the tall detective said, “I’m sorry, John. No adventure, just a lot of data to be checked through. Something that the Met and Mycroft’s operatives are best trained to handle.”

“You mean ‘boring’?” John growled at him.

“Exactly, John.” That was said with pleasure. “Now, as soon as we can return to Baker Street, we will be able to return to the work, and I believe that Siger will be using more and more spoken language soon. We will have plenty to do. Mycroft, I rely on you to keep us informed about your finds.”

“Yes,” his brother said sourly. “Well, John, we have much to do, apparently. Please call and I will provide transportation when you are released back to Baker Street.”

John’s nod meant neither yes nor no. He nodded as Mycroft gave his nephew a quick buss on those ginger curls, took up his umbrella and went off to work.

Greg stood, stretched, and told them, “Yeah, I guess that’s my cue to get to work. John, keep me updated. Let me know when you’re going home.”

“Nonsense, Lestrade,” Sherlock sniffed. “We’ll be heading home this afternoon. John will be resting afterward. You can call tomorrow.”

“I am dismissed.” Greg made a face at John. “Don’t overdo it!”

“When have I ever, Greg?” John laughed.

John was never sure whether the doctors truly thought it was time for him to go home, or they just wanted to get rid of Sherlock. But as he was haltingly climbing the stairs to 221B, Siger babbling back behind in his _père’s_ arms, all that he could think was that he was happy to be home.


	7. The Conglomerate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse of who kidnapped John.

One man held the key to the apartment. They all knew each other, of course. Moriarty had kept them all apart, but after his death there had been time to track down what little remained of his network. Those who were not dead or in prison, anyway.

Yes, Moriarty had kept clean bits and businesses; for all that he was heavily invested in crime, it was impossible to build an evil empire of the completely criminal. In spite of what the news would have you think, the majority of people are law-abiding and tend toward community values. Benjamin Nestor was the Chief Executive Officer for Rothman and Sandings, a medical electronics supplier. He was a very careful man. The wife he had chosen was thoroughly vetted before he had made advances toward the woman for a date. His spouse was conventional - well-dyed blonde hair, vivid blue eyes enhanced by contact lenses. Form-fitting designer gowns on her attracted attention - sometimes to them as a couple, and sometimes to distract others from Nestor’s networking.

Benjamin had chafed under Jim Moriarty’s requirements that Rothman and Sandings’s reputation and business practices remain impeccable. Nestor knew that cutting corners when you worked for Moriarty meant a death sentence. A messy capital punishment that would destroy all the subject held dear - in this case, the expensive lifestyle that Nestor enjoyed.

Moriarty was dead. Moran was dead. Culverton Smith had been disappeared, though Nestor was doing his utmost to find the man. No one would know if he cut corners now. Not if he was very careful.

“I’ll drive myself today, Mick,” he told his driver, pocketing the keys the man handed him without comment. On days like this, when he was heading to the department, he always drove himself.

…

Mick Davies waited until Mr. Nestor had driven off in the Jag before making a note in his Android. When Tiger Moran had gotten him the job with Mr. Nestor, the Tiger had given him two instructions: to keep his nose clean, and to track Mr. Nestor’s movements and report them back to the Tiger. 

Moran had always done alright by Mick. Even though he knew that the Tiger was dead, he still kept track of Nestor’s movements. The GPS in the Jaguar made it easy, though Mick was smart enough to keep count of petrol used, of mileage even when he was not driving the car, and of scraps of paper with addresses on them that Mr. Nestor tended to leave in the car - or in his suit jacket pocket, where Mick could just casually pull them out. Nestor never seemed to notice. Mick was pretty sure that Nestor rarely remembered that Mick was there.

Mrs. Jennifer didn’t. She was pretty. She was polite, even if she was cheating on her husband. Mick got extra in his paycheck when he helped Mrs. Jennifer out. Mick kept track of where Mrs. Jennifer went as well, though now that the Tiger was dead he had no one to report to.

Well, he had the afternoon free of driving duties, even if he was still on call. Time to tackle the workbench in the garage. Pulling on overalls, he got started.

…

John Parker was a rat-faced, balding man, and he knew it. He also knew that he’d never have pulled Benny Nestor’s wife if Parker had not been an extremely wealthy man. It gave Parker a great deal of satisfaction to be putting it to Jennifer when Benny was so busy talking down to him. 

“We have to move carefully. They’re looking for Moriarty’s people. We’re looking for Cully Smith. Sooner or later we’ll find him and remove him. We just need to do it without coming to the attention of the law.” As though John Parker needed the likes of Benny Nestor to tell him that.

Still and all, Jim Moriarty had given him a good deal of access to information and to favours, and all for running his business exactly as he would have anyway. No need to cut corners or skirt the law when it was just good business to keep your nose clean in that way.

Well, he was on his way now to the wrong kind of rendezvous driving his own vehicle through London traffic. Benny had better have more info for them than last time. To make up for the utter madness of going through all of this shite.

…

Mark Holystone checked his Jaeger-LeCoultre timepiece. It wouldn’t do to get to the meetup too early. The less he had to do with Ben Nestor and John Parker, the happier Mark would be. He wanted nothing to do with the remains of Jim Moriarty’s empire. Brushing off imagined dirt from his Westwood suit, he remembered with distaste that it was Jim’s favorite brand. 

Jim Moriarty had made certain that Holystone knew exactly what Jim could do to him. The entrepreneur had never been so frightened of anyone or anything in his life. Moriarty had not managed to get through Ben Nestor’s self-absorbed lack of intelligence enough to scare the man. Mark Holystone was smarter than that.

Once Ben Nestor found Culverton Smith, and once Mark Holystone had made certain that idiot was taken care of, then there would be no more of these secret little meetings. Holystone would make it clear that neither of the others in this “conglomerate” - what an idiotic designation - were to contact him ever again. He had enough on either of them to keep them from attempting to blackmail him. Or anyone associated with Holystone Industries.

Culverton Smith was the only one who knew that Holystone had been signed on to receive one of the babies from the Initiative. Well, no, he and his wife had been contacted by the government in their investigation. But so far as that investigation had determined, the Holystones were just a wealthy family among the others who were to receive one of the designer children sired by Sherlock Holmes. 

They didn’t know that Culverton Smith had been forced to give up the remainder of the semen donated by Holmes before Holystone would see to it that Smith had access to his precious pathogens. So far, it seemed, Smith had kept his mouth shut. Holystone was going to ensure that information did not ever come out into the daylight.

Not now, when he’d gotten the perfect eggs donated. The fertilization had taken. The surrogate didn’t need to know what exactly she was carrying. He and his wife would have their designer child. Only now they’d have the perfect, and perfectly beautiful baby - one with incredible intelligence. The gay/lesbian gene was of no concern. The Holystones had a male heir. It made no difference if the second child provided them with grandchildren.

Once Culverton Smith was dead, no one but Mark and Pamela Holystone would know that their soon-to-be-born baby was sired by Sherlock Holmes on Irene Adler.


	8. Notification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft requests John's presence at the Diogenes.

John Watson had not thought it would be anything other than a normal day. Considering that a normal day could include explosions, rampaging about the house in pursuit of a naked child, or spouse for that matter - for not particularly fun reasons, or an odd individual meeting with them on the street to seek out their help, normal was relative. 

He’d just stopped at the Tesco’s for milk (and some things never do change), when a sparkling clean black vehicle had pulled up. His mobile rang, the unlisted number familiar enough, and a the voice of family speaking, “Get into the car, John.” Then as an obvious afterthought, “Please.”

Sliding along the leather seat, John called, “‘Morning, Declan,” toward the driver beyond the smoked glass. The communicating window to the driver cracked a bit, “Morning, Dr. Watson,” before sliding home. Dr. John Watson pulled out his mobile and texted, “Being kidnapped by your brother. Will you be there? JW.”

He received an instant response, “What does Mycroft want? Did you get the milk? SH”

“No idea. I have the milk - it’s hostage as well. JW” Leaning forward he tapped on the window, and when it was opened asked, “I have a gallon of milk here, Declan. Should I take that in with?”

“I’ll take care it doesn’t spoil, Dr. Watson,” answered Mycroft’s driver.

His mobile alerted him to a returning text. “You speak as though the milk would be a more important hostage. I assure you that it is not. SH”

It was followed almost immediately by another text. “I trust you. SH”

Well. As if that did not set off all manner of foreboding as Declan pulled the ominous black car neatly into the unloading zone in front of the Diogenes club. John stepped out, minus the plastic jug of 2%, greeted the doorman, and walked up the steps into the foyer of the Diogenes. 

The two story entryway echoed with his footsteps, and the tiny sounds of the concierge behind the wooden desk. No speech. They were waiting for him, and a servitor lead him up the polished marble stairs to the rooms Mycroft Holmes most often used for business meetings outside of his office.

A table was laid with tea and a variety of pastries. Mycroft’s slim figure was outlined at the enormous windows overlooking the street. John removed his windcheater to give to the servitor and commented, “I thought it was dangerous to stand in a window like that. In all the movies that’s where some unsuspecting government employee stands before being shot by a high powered rifle.”

The look Mycroft gave him as he joined John at the table was severe. “Fiction, John, and poor planning.” Gesturing for John to be seated, Mycroft joined him with an equally severe cup of plain Oolong. “How are the children?”

John hid his smile behind a mouthful of strong tea with milk. “Sherlock and Siger have begun reading music together. Sherlock will sit with Siger on his lap, holding a manuscript, and they’ll hum the notes together on each line. The girls just chew on their teething toys and ignore them.”

“You’re still waiting for Siger to turn three before starting him on the violin?” Mycroft asked with all the body language of actual interest.

“Yeah, I think that gives him something to look forward to. And it’s not like we’re keeping him from making music before that. Obviously. He sings - makes up little songs - in his bed at night, and in the morning before the rest of us get up. So long as he doesn’t wake up the girls, we told him it was fine.” John gave his brother-in-law full attention, “What is it that you need, Mycroft?”

Mycroft set the half empty teacup on a side table. “We have tracked down a link to the men behind your kidnapping last year.”

“And the reason Sherlock is not here is?” John asked politely.

“The link,” Mycroft told him, “is Irene Adler.”

There was a moment of silence so heavy that John could feel it on his shoulders. “Again, I ask, why isn’t Sherlock here? Why are you talking to me instead of your brother?”

Mycroft was reading him. A flick of the eye as he took in body language, John’s tone of voice, his phrasing. “You know that she is alive. Sherlock must have told you. We would like you to speak to her. As our agent. Find out names, and any more information that you can obtain about Moriarty’s supposed successors.”

“She’s in London?” John asked.

“Canada. Vancouver. Your expenses would be paid. Business class, of course. Just you. Not Sherlock.” 

“Why do you think that Irene Adler would talk to me? About anything, much less about Moriarty’s dealings?” John demanded.

“Do you really think it would be wise to expose Sherlock to Adler again?” Mycroft Holmes asked blandly. “Really, John, I thought you would jump at the chance to keep them apart.”

John Watson’s mouth opened to reply to that, then snapped shut. It was a moment before he gave an answer. “I will consider it.”

“Do,” responded the calm representative of the British Government, “and let me know as soon as possible.”

The look John gave him was not friendly, nor was it fraternal. Gulping down the last of his tea, the former Captain Watson took his leave with the snap of a crisp march.


	9. John goes home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has found a clue.

John Watson had not thought it would be anything other than

When John climbed out of the car at two hundred twenty one b, Baker Street, after he thanked Declan he took a moment to observe.

The door remained black, the brass knocker just a hint off-kilter. No notice in sig told of the presence of the Holmes-Watson Agency. There was noise next door from Mrs. Turner’s, where she was having the upstairs flat re-plastered.

Hoisting the jug of milk, he stepped firmly from the curb and up to the doorway, juggling a ring of keys to open the locks. The milk stayed in the foyer, perched on the oak buffet against the wall, while he checked in with Alice Brown in the office downstairs. Bert was there, stretched out on the office couch reading a spy novel, and generally keeping the office manager company as she updated their online schedule. John then knocked gently on Mrs. Hudson’s door for a moment to chat. When he could not put it off any longer, he climbed the wooden stairs to home.

A year ago Siger would have been waiting at the baby-gate. Miri sat there now, and gave a soft “coo” of greeting. 

“How’s my girl?” John asked her as he unfastened the gate to sweep the baby into his free arm.

When he walked through the open doorway into the flat, Sherlock had Ross in her high chair, Siger in his booster seat up at the table, and dinner - takeout of course - ready to be served. John seated Miranda, and seated himself opposite of Sherlock at the table. They talked of general items, including Siger in the conversation, and Miranda and Ross - who had already been fed - though the babies did not respond over much. They were more interested in playing with the bits of soft, steamed veg that Sherlock had give them to experiment with.

After dinner, nothing was said. Sherlock continued to read to Siger. Ross was lolling on her stomach on Harry’s much used afghan.

For a wonder, there was no call from Lestrade. Bert remained downstairs. Alice Brown closed up the office and went home for the night. The children were fed, bathed, and put to bed after a fairly short and easily read book. 

John followed the tall, slender figure as the man clattered down the stairs ahead of him.

Still no question, no comment. Sherlock sank into his chair, leaning back, he crossed his legs, steepled long fingers before his face and stared at John, who was holding his laptop like a shield in front of him. The silence became deafening.

John, who had been rehearsing the words in his head all evening opened his mouth to blurt out something, anything. No words came.

Sherlock, true to his self-description from so long ago, said nothing. He did, however, continue to observe his spouse.

“I feel that you already know what I am going to say,” John said helplessly.

With a tilt of that dark curled head, his partner replied, “Possibly,” then lapsed back into silence.

In the absence of conversation, the sounds of the street seemed magnified - cars traveling Baker Street, passers-by chattering on the pavement, and a siren in the distance. Suddenly, John gave a snort. A giggle broke loose, and the blond doctor leaned back in his chair and laughed until he was out of breath.

“Irene Adler is the link. Mycroft wants me to go to Canada and talk to her,” came out finally.

Sherlock’s focus on John vanished, and John knew the man was in his Mind Palace. There was time for John to give a sigh, hoist himself out of the chair, and fix two mugs of tea - one milky, one disgustingly sweet.

When Sherlock continued the conversation his own tea was cold. John was on his second cup and working his way through a queue of emails. “When do you leave?”

“Why do you think I’m going? I have responsibilities here. There’s Siger, and Miranda and Ross. There’s the business. My shifts at the surgery.” Even as he spoke, John knew his partner was reading the words through whatever filter existed in the Mind Palace, adding that information to observations garnered from stance, tone of voice, twinges and muscular spasms and tics in his too often open face. John could tell when the assessment was finished.

Sherlock Holmes gave him a nod of agreement just as a sleepy wail floated down the stairs and echoed through the monitor. Standing, and without a backward glance at John, he ascended the stairs quietly. John watched him exit the sitting room, and said nothing.

“John?” Came the baritone form the stop of the steps. “I trust you.” Then the click of the door shutting behind him. John could hear him tending to Miranda over the monitor. 

Damnation.

Doctor John Watson went into their bedroom to pack his flight bag.


End file.
